


Brother, Killer, Lover

by Honeythief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 07, Top Sam, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeythief/pseuds/Honeythief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam breaks down. Dean's there to kiss it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother, Killer, Lover

I startle awake with a shout, panting and sweating from all the tossing and turning I must have done in my sleep. I rush to scan the room, distrustful of its serenity, every inch of my tense body prepared for impending danger. The view is obscured by my long since trimmed bangs, but save for another throbbing headache I seem relatively fine. My heart is racing and I struggle to accommodate reality. _This_ is reality, isn't it? And _that_ was only a nightmare, right? I hear the blood pumping in my ears steadily fade away as the thought begins to seep in. False alarm. False alarm.

"Pathetic," I hear a snort and I gasp, head turning frantically to locate the source of the mockery. "Lil' Sammy thinks he's safe."

Lucifer's lips are crooked in a grotesque pout as he pins me down with an evil, amused stare. My blood runs cold and I sob, fingers digging into an old injury with vicious intent, reopening it yet again. I greet the familiar waves of pain with as much agony as relief, trying to issue control over the hallucination like I was taught to. I panic when it doesn't work - the bastard's still there, sneering at my misery - and I'm ready to tear the flesh right off my palm when a warm hand closes around mine, fingers gently stroking my sore, broken skin.

"Shh," comes a soft whisper. "You're okay, Sammy, it's okay."

I take the risk and lift one eyelid open. Dean's beside me - hair ruffled from sleep, brows arched in a deep, troubled frown. _Dean_. The only barrier standing between me and madness. My heart clenches in gratitude and I drink him in, relish in his presence, absorb it like a cure. My tormented mind gladly focuses on the graceful way moonlight dances on his skin, the way it adds an additional glint to his eyes. I find it funny how they manage to stay outstandingly green even in the semi-darkness of the room.

"You're not a Disney princess, Samantha, and Dean sure as hell ain't your prince charming. When will you learn that he can't save you?"

I never learn. The taunt only has me reaching out, yanking him by the sleeve of his black, crumpled shirt. I need to touch, make sure. He's undeniably there. He's close, too. I feel his pleasant warmth, his familiar scent. It's so painfully comforting and human that I want to cry in relief, hug him tightly and thank him over and over again for just _being_ there.

"Dean," I utter his name in despair, pleading for help. "It's not working, I think-... I think I'm losing it again."

It is unfair to rely on him like that. Wake him up in the middle of the night and expect him to magically pull the solution out of his sleeve. It is borderline naïve, and yet I find myself believing that he can make everything right. Hasn't he always?

I suddenly feel like I'm seven years old again - shaking underneath the sheets, scared of monsters, clowns and burglars. Calling my big brother to protect me. He'd get up to check the room, teasing me for being a girl before switching the lights back off. But he doesn't laugh this time.

"He's here?"

I gulp.

"He's not, Sam. _I'm_ here," Dean insists, noticing how my eyes stray towards the hallucination. The only response I can muster is a half-hearted nod.

"Look at _me_ ," he then breathes, cradling my face. "That's right," he murmurs in praise when I do, thumb brushing over my cheek soothingly. Completely enraptured, I watch his long eyelashes flutter shut before he presses our lips together in an overly chaste kiss. He pulls back immediately to check my reaction, then applies the same treatment to both my cheeks and forehead.

I exhale shakily. Touching is taboo. Our sexual relationship has been complicated at best, nothing more than a couple of drunken, desperate fucks, rough and primitive to the core. I vaguely recall the first time it happened. That one tough hunt in Ohio, both blurry and intense. Who made the first move? Who the hell first came up with this sick idea? Terribly wasted yet queerly euphoric at the same time, we tore each other's clothes off and went at it like animals in heat. Never even made it to the bed. That night, Dean let me do as I pleased. I took him twice, fast and dirty like I would a random hooker, shooting two loads inside his pliant body. The following day, I didn't panic, I didn't bail. I was ready to figure things out, talk like two consenting adults I thought we were. But Dean just stormed right past me and locked himself in the bathroom for a total of three hours. He never brought it up again, acted as if nothing had happened. Comparable to robbing a bank and striding casually in the next day to ask for a loan.

The second time, shortly after dad's death, he stumbled into our motel room. Piss-drunk, barely standing on two feet. Threw himself into my arms and begged me to fuck him. I could never resist.

Rinse and repeat, because I never learn. I did use to snap at him, every now and again. I called him a coward and a hypocrite who's too afraid to admit that he likes taking his little brother's cock up the ass. It always earned me a punch and a few days of silence. I was bitter, resentful. Hurt, most of all. I let Dean seduce me every damn time and felt like a bloody fool for letting him play me like that. I knew I was being used, but couldn't do anything about it. Couldn't, or wouldn't.

Now, as his hands trace my body, I wonder if he even means it. I wonder if it's more than a duty, a ploy to make me forget about the pain for one night. So I ask:

"Do you want it?"

"I always want it." Dean's reply comes instantly, muffled against my shoulder but bearing no signs of hesitation. He ruts against me, slowly snuggling ever so closer. His breath comes in light pants and I realize he's getting aroused without so much as a drop of alcohol running through his veins - it's all him, pure and uncompromised, and suddenly I'm ridiculously grateful for having that nightmare.

"All he wants is for you to stop whining, grasshopper."

I suspect that the hot press of Dean's lips against mine is genuine, his gentle touches tentative but eager to please. I _want_ to believe that, and the preposterous lack of privacy feels horribly wrong and violating - this wasn't a moment I was willing to share with anyone but Dean. I wanted to cherish and savor the first time I made love to my brother without Satan yapping behind my back. 

"Oh, please. You're getting this worked up over a pity-fuck? I almost feel sorry for you myself. Want me to bend over, too?"

Seeking distraction, my hands travel down to Dean's ass, rubbing it through the thin fabric of his black shorts. I kiss him and somehow finally taste _him_ , not whiskey, not beer, just Dean - a taste that should be so familiar by now, but is sadly foreign instead. My abdomen flutters in anticipation as I strip him all down, starting with his shirt, revealing the light skin and soft muscles. There's scars, there's freckles. There's a tattoo on his chest. The only thing I find myself expecting and missing yet again is the amulet hanging from his neck. I always forget it's no longer there. What I _do_ remember is the way it slapped against his sweaty skin as he bounced up and down on my dick in Mississippi’s arguably most devastated motel, screaming out the filthiest things for all other guests to hear. 

"He threw it out like it meant shit, didn't he? Oh, that one hurt. His angel called it worthless, so it landed in the garbage. _You're_ worthless," Lucifer accentuates, jabbing a finger in my direction.

I tense up and bite down on Dean's bottom lip, breaking it and drawing blood. He hisses but accepts the sudden crudeness, licking into my mouth with renewed devotion - as if apologizing. His hands finally find my hair, playing with it idly before he _pulls_ \- he loves pulling, and it's never gentle. In return, my fingertips ghost over his back and then, slowly - giving him time to protest or retreat - slip between his cheeks, spreading his entrance.

I know Dean's body. I know what makes him shiver, sigh, cringe and moan. I know how and where and when to touch to make him helpless in his desire, begging for things only I can give him. I know that he likes his nipples sucked until they're red and sore. I know exactly where to find that spot deep within his body, how to tease it to drive him crazy. I know what sound he makes when he's about to come untouched, how his body tenses and clenches and how blissed-out he looks. I know all this cause I was always sober enough to remember, cause I didn't need a drug as an excuse about how I felt. Didn't need hectoliters of booze to cope with the guilt nor to accept the reality of engaging in a sexual act with my own brother.

"Well,  _duh._ You don't need any cause you're fucked up, Sam. See, Dean's the smart one after all. That way he can pretend it's someone else. Like his favorite dead buddy Castiel, may he rest in peace. Now, I wonder who  _really_ needs consolation here, hmm?"

Still, I'm constantly learning. His moans are different. More shy and restrained. That's the first thing I notice as I open him up. When drunk, he'd cry out loud and raunchy like a pornstar. Now, he sighs and mewls into my ear like I'm the only person privileged to hear his pleasure. It makes my blood boil. I push my fingers deeper, catching his torn lip between my teeth. He huffs and wiggles impatiently, signalizing his readiness.

We actually never cared much for foreplay, not really. Just the right amount to send our blood flowing to the right places, just enough for a messy prep. There was no place for tenderness or worship before, the sheer concept of intimacy completely alien to the both of us. Now, as I watch Dean's muscles flex beneath my fingertips, how each delicate caress leaves a trail of goosebumps across his soft skin, it feels so much more right than just bending him over and pounding him like a savage. The fleeting kisses, roaming hands, soulful stares... it fuels my desire and incites my senses. Leaves me hungering for more, but hungering patiently.

"Oh, get a grip on yourself, loverboy! You know better than that. He's gonna dump you in the morning anyway," Satan helpfully supplies. I'm busy littering the smooth expanse of Dean's neck with hickeys and kisses, but I make the mistake of looking over his shoulder once I hear what oddly resembles actual voice of reason instead of a nasty insult. Lucifer's wearing that all-knowing, shit-earing grin on his face. I'm pretty sure that when I wake up, _he's_ gonna be there, not Dean, waiting with the big "I told you so". Him and that stupid smirk of his.

I look, and I wait. He seems so confident. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world and I'm the only naïve motherfucker that believes otherwise. He's right, isn't he? So I wait, somewhat hesitant, listening on Dean's quickened heartbeat, feeling his rapid pulse where my lips press against his neck.

"Come on, Sam. I'm really not all that much into voyeurism," Dean suddenly speaks up, half-serious, half-joking. His tone is layered with all kinds of emotions, but poorly concealed anxiety stands out most. I counter by flipping him over as though to assure he has my undivided attention, and before I can stop myself, I ask if he's going to be there when I wake up. It comes out desperate and pleading, shattering the last pieces of my dignity. But I hardly care - Lucifer didn't spare much of it anyway.

To my horror, he doesn't answer. He shots me a woeful look and averts his eyes - whether in shame or deflection, I can't tell. But I dally long enough to tell that I need this one way or the other, that I couldn't possibly bring myself to walk away when he was already waiting beneath me, spread out and ready to take me in. If Lucifer's right, I'll only learn to listen to him next time.

Next time, I won't give in. It's always the very same thought on my mind whenever I sink into him. It's like an alcoholic telling himself he won't ever drink again. Except this is far more poisonous. He chants my name as I drive into his body, all breathy and beautiful, making me realize just how addicted I am to giving him pleasure, how drunk on his moans and heat I am.

"You're such a sap. Too bad he can't even look at you."

His eyes are clenched shut, head turned to the side. If Dean intended this as emotional comfort, he was doing a pretty piss-poor job of it. The only thing I can do is try and shut down my upstairs thinking, let his touches distract me. Lose myself in his body, focus on the way it feels against me, around me.

"I'm so jealous, Sam! I court you day and night, and this is what I get? Look at my heart bleeding!"

...

He's tight. Always is, deliciously so. I keep wishing I had the time to fuck him completely open. Make him sloppy and loose, full with my seed. Mark him up so he can no longer deny what happened.

I groan. Automatically, my hips start working faster, fucking into Dean's inviting heat. He cries out brokenly at the motion and I stop, all the way in. Was that pain or pleasure? Regardless, it only serves to further quench my appetite. My abdomen feels hot and heavy, cock throbbing with burning need. Unsurprisingly enough, I feel already close to the finish line - God knows how long it's been since I last had this.

"I'm no God, but it was exactly 431 days ago. March 15th, Saturday, 1:07 AM. Ah, nothing better than a tumble in the sheets with a soulless piece of meat! Your bro has very refined tastes."

Dean whines impatiently and I can't help but crack a tiny smile in the corner of my mouth. Of course it was pleasure. You can only imagine the astonishment upon discovering that my "no-homo, lady-killer macho" of a big brother gets off on being fucked. When I'm inside him, his face gets all red and hot and he's like a completely different person. He moans and keens like a whore, submissive and needy. Overall, his body is poetically responsive and I bet he appreciates it just as much as I do, especially tonight - without alcohol numbing his senses and clogging his mind.

At some point, he pulls himself up on his elbows and pushes me down, crawling into my lap. My arms wrap around his waist like vines, making sure there isn't an inch of space left between our bodies. We pick up our rhythm, Dean's hips moving in sensual circles to get me deeper still, hands tracing mindlessly over my back. Usually, I'd have formidable scratches the next morning, but apparently it's not that kind of night.

On a regular night, for instance, he'd shout out all kinds of lewd things when high on his pleasure. Tonight, contrary to the usual dirty talk, I'm served with passionate confessions instead. Regardless of it being true or not, I do like the sound of all the "I love yous" that slip past his lips, of all the fanciful words of affection I'd never hear otherwise. Somewhere in-between those sweet nothings I hear a couple of "I'm sorrys" as well, choked out and begging.

I'm confused. Why would he ask my forgiveness? Or, rather - why now? I don't stop pushing into him, positive he'll stop if I go harder or deeper, but he continues to shower me with fervent apologies, peppering my neck and collarbone with wet kisses.

"I'm sorry- aah, please d-don't hate- mm, I'm _so_ sorry," he sniffles, voice hitching miserably. Before I can check if he's actually crying, he presses my head to his chest in a tight, smothering hold. He doesn't stop riding my cock, hips moving back and forth helplessly. I'm not having any of this. I tear myself from his embrace, pulling back to witness faint traces of tears on his cheeks.

Huh. I'll wager Lucifer would offer some fascinating insight, but this time I hear nothing but Dean's ragged panting, feel nothing but his crazed heartbeat. See nothing but his eyes finally looking back at me. Involuntarily, our foreheads bump together, lips meeting once again in a languid kiss with too much tongue. It's filthy, and I love it. I spur him on by pinching his hard nipples, sliding in and out rhythmically, teasing his sweet spot. He hiccups something that resembles my name and utters one last apology before I shut him up with another kiss. 

"Come in me, Sammy, let it all go," Dean urges me on, and his voice is strangely hoarse. It makes him sound so vulnerable. Aren't we both, anyway? It's solidary. Seeing him this exposed gives me way more comfort than seeing his faked strength ever would.

He keeps encouraging me to fill him up and the invitation sounds exceedingly tempting, but I refuse to grant his wish just yet. I need this to last, so I fuck him slow and even, our hips grinding and crashing together with light slaps. Dean's a flushed, disheveled mess, cock swollen and leaking. He's so close - just one flick of my wrist, just one precise thrust against his prostate and I'd have him coming all over himself in no time.

The imagery finally compels me to spill inside him with a grunt, just like he wants me to, shoving in hard and fast to make sure he gets there with me. His low sighs momentarily turn into loud, blissful moans, body clenching sweetly around my spurting cock, intensifying the ecstasy of our simultaneous orgasms.  

We fall back on the bed, panting and groaning from satisfaction, a sweaty mess of limbs. I want to go on, love him until we're both spent and numb with bliss, until we both fall unconscious. I'm barely aware of how exhausted I am already.

"Sleep, Sammy," I hear a soft murmur, barely intelligible. His fingers stroke my nape in slow, calming circles. That's the last thing I register before my eyelids close for good.

***

Strange, this unfamiliar sensation of peace. No earth-shattering crisis, no jumping adrenaline or sudden rushes of anxiety and fear. No gory flashbacks and a suspicious lack of suicidal thoughts.

Huh. Looks like I even got some sleep. No nightmares? No "Stairway to Heaven" until 5 in the morning? I must literally be in heaven, then.

When I open my eyes, I see I'm not all that wrong. My heart does a little dance once I see Dean lying flush against me, staring blankly at the ceiling. The curtains aren't closed and the sun is free to peer into the room, illuminating it boldly with bright, long rays. God, it must be around midday already.

"Hey," I announce myself to Dean, bringing my hand up to stroke over his cheek. He turns, visibly startled and unprepared for the confrontation.

"Hey," he rasps. "Just woke up myself."

I watch him silently, a warm smile lingering on my lips. He returns it timidly after a good moment of hesitation, like he'd been trying to determine whether or not he's allowed to smile back.

I don't need explanations - something he's never been stellar at anyway. I certainly don't need any more apologies. And for once, I don't need to poke and pry or prod to understand what he's feeling - everything's written all over his face.

"I'm here. Is that okay?" he whispers, green eyes wide and expressive. I read fear, uncertainty, guilt.

"Just make sure you _stay_ here, got it?" I lean in to plant a soft peck on his full lips. All the chaos between us wasn’t just his doing. Reproach is meaningless. It’s all water under the bridge now, anyways.  

"I'm here, too. Is _that_ okay?"

My heart skips a beat or two, though honestly, I'm not even remotely surprised. It's all kind of predictable, really. I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration and force my eyes shut. Maybe if I open them back again, he'll be gone. Maybe it's just an echo, a hallucination of a hallucination. Or something.  _You were wrong, douchebag. He stayed. You should be gone._

"Sorry, brother. No dice. When will you finally learn that you can’t get rid of me that easily? Or, at all.”

I don't know what I was thinking. Our lives aren't a fairytale, where all problems go away with a kiss from your beloved.

"You okay? Please tell me you're feeling better, cause I sure as hell didn't do jack shit to remedy that," Dean says, propping his head on my shoulder with a weary sigh.

It's ironic enough, I suppose. The fact that he fell apart while trying to put me together. And here I am, in pieces yet again.

"He's gone," I breathe, lying through my teeth without a second thought. Dean substantially relaxes in my embrace and I feel like I've made the right choice. They say that if you repeat a lie a hundred times, it eventually becomes the truth. He doesn't need to know. 

"Hey, lying to Dean-o sounds fun! I’m game. I mean, last time you kept things from him, it got me out of the cage!”

I never learn.

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I hope you enjoyed. Secondly, any kind of feedback would be highly appreciated. Lastly, thanks a bunch for reading guys! :))  
> 


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